Gatling gun, laying down a deadly line of fire on the courtyard where Rurales in all stages of dress poured out the doors of the prison buildings and stables.
A second later, one of the other Gatlings in another guard tower began roaring as well. Looking up as he shook spent casings from one of his .45s, then filling the empty chambers from his cartridge belt, Prophet saw a dozen or so peon-revolutionarios—all Big Tio’s men whom Prophet had thrown in with in the scrubby hills around Del Rio—whooping and hollering as they spilled down the fort’s east and north walls.
They dangled from ropes or dropped into the courtyard while the men behind the deadly Gatling guns turned the Rurales spilling out of the guardhouses and barracks and big central prison block to a wheeling, screaming mass of bloody carnage tumbling down stone steps or rolling in the hard-packed, straw- and dung-littered dirt of the yard.
Above the din rose a girl’s shrill scream.
Prophet gritted his teeth as he spun the cylinder of his third filled Colt, wedged the gun behind his cartridge belts, grabbed his shotgun, and sprinted between the fort’s gaping doors and into the bloody, smoky melee of the courtyard, bellowing, “Looo-eeeezzzz-ahhhhh!”
2
RUNNING THROUGH THE gate’s open doors and into the prison courtyard, Prophet threw a hand in the air, signaling Big Tio to hold off with the Gatling gun.
He heard the Mexican revolutionario leader shout the cease-fire orders to the other towers, all four of which had been overtaken by the nimble, mountain-bred rebels while Prophet had diverted the guards’ attention outside the front gate.
The angry, ragtag bunch led by Big Tio had been chomping at the bit to take out the corrupt Rurale contingent stationed here at San Cristobal for several months. The Rurale officer overseeing the headquarters and prison, Major Rudofo Montoya, was in the business of kidnapping young women from the nearby mountain villages and selling them into prostitution in the mining perditions of southern Chihuahua, where isolated rock breakers, more savage than any Apache or Yaqui, paid good money for female companionship. The younger the better.
But while they paid good money for the young women and girls—some as young as eight—they went through them quite quickly, always needing more. Prophet’s sometime partner, sometime lover, Louisa Bonaventure, had been caught in a trap sprung by Major Montoya three weeks ago in the village of Del Rio, and she and the young peasant girls she’d been captured with had been brought here where they were awaiting transportation by mule train into the Sierra Madres.
All this Prophet had learned from Big Tio’s spies. And that was when the American bounty hunter, who’d met Big Tio on a bounty-hunting expedition to Mexico several years ago, had helped the revolutionario leader organize the raid on the prison here at San Cristobal.
Now, as the Gatling’s cover fire died, leaving countless Rurales sprawled and groaning around the big monastery building that Montoya had converted into a prison, Prophet dropped to a knee and extended the sawed-off shotgun from his right side.
Two Rurales had just bolted out of a low, arched doorway in the officer’s headquarters in front of him, one extending a rifle toward Big Tio’s guard tower, the other clamping a hand to a bloody shoulder while cursing loudly in Spanish and raising a pearl-gripped Remington. Prophet tripped both triggers, and the stout weapon leaped and roared in his hands, blowing both officers off their feet and piling them up on the floor of the low stone stoop just outside the door from which they’d emerged.
Big Tio’s roaring laughter carried down from the guard tower. “Lou, remind me to buy that savage popper from you before we part ways again, amigo!”
Prophet snorted and, realizing he was still wearing the cumbersome brown robes, shrugged out of them, letting them drop to the dust. Beneath he wore only his
A second later, one of the other Gatlings in another guard tower began roaring as well. Looking up as he shook spent casings from one of his .45s, then filling the empty chambers from his cartridge belt, Prophet saw a dozen or so peon-revolutionarios—all Big Tio’s men whom Prophet had thrown in with in the scrubby hills around Del Rio—whooping and hollering as they spilled down the fort’s east and north walls.
They dangled from ropes or dropped into the courtyard while the men behind the deadly Gatling guns turned the Rurales spilling out of the guardhouses and barracks and big central prison block to a wheeling, screaming mass of bloody carnage tumbling down stone steps or rolling in the hard-packed, straw- and dung-littered dirt of the yard.
Above the din rose a girl’s shrill scream.
Prophet gritted his teeth as he spun the cylinder of his third filled Colt, wedged the gun behind his cartridge belts, grabbed his shotgun, and sprinted between the fort’s gaping doors and into the bloody, smoky melee of the courtyard, bellowing, “Looo-eeeezzzz-ahhhhh!”
2
RUNNING THROUGH THE gate’s open doors and into the prison courtyard, Prophet threw a hand in the air, signaling Big Tio to hold off with the Gatling gun.
He heard the Mexican revolutionario leader shout the cease-fire orders to the other towers, all four of which had been overtaken by the nimble, mountain-bred rebels while Prophet had diverted the guards’ attention outside the front gate.
The angry, ragtag bunch led by Big Tio had been chomping at the bit to take out the corrupt Rurale contingent stationed here at San Cristobal for several months. The Rurale officer overseeing the headquarters and prison, Major Rudofo Montoya, was in the business of kidnapping young women from the nearby mountain villages and selling them into prostitution in the mining perditions of southern Chihuahua, where isolated rock breakers, more savage than any Apache or Yaqui, paid good money for female companionship. The younger the better.
But while they paid good money for the young women and girls—some as young as eight—they went through them quite quickly, always needing more. Prophet’s sometime partner, sometime lover, Louisa Bonaventure, had been caught in a trap sprung by Major Montoya three weeks ago in the village of Del Rio, and she and the young peasant girls she’d been captured with had been brought here where they were awaiting transportation by mule train into the Sierra Madres.
All this Prophet had learned from Big Tio’s spies. And that was when the American bounty hunter, who’d met Big Tio on a bounty-hunting expedition to Mexico several years ago, had helped the revolutionario leader organize the raid on the prison here at San Cristobal.
Now, as the Gatling’s cover fire died, leaving countless Rurales sprawled and groaning around the big monastery building that Montoya had converted into a prison, Prophet dropped to a knee and extended the sawed-off shotgun from his right side.
Two Rurales had just bolted out of a low, arched doorway in the officer’s headquarters in front of him, one extending a rifle toward Big Tio’s guard tower, the other clamping a hand to a bloody shoulder while cursing loudly in Spanish and raising a pearl-gripped Remington. Prophet tripped both triggers, and the stout weapon leaped and roared in his hands, blowing both officers off their feet and piling them up on the floor of the low stone stoop just outside the door from which they’d emerged.
Big Tio’s roaring laughter carried down from the guard tower. “Lou, remind me to buy that savage popper from you before we part ways again, amigo!”
Prophet snorted and, realizing he was still wearing the cumbersome brown robes, shrugged out of them, letting them drop to the dust. Beneath he wore only his
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